The Judas Diary
by Rector
Summary: A further exploration of Mycroft's early years.
1. Chapter 1

**The Judas Diary**

As soon as I heard Bonneville utter the words "It's good to have another Merton man in the department," I should have realised a bombshell was about to land. I should immediately have feigned a disabling limp, a dizzy spell ... early onset bewilderment. But no. I was _far_ too smart for that. Instead, I lifted my eyebrows, looked mildly interested and said nothing.

"I need you to return to our alma mater," Sir David continued, lighting a cigarette and giving me a speculative stare as he relaxed back behind his desk. "A reunion of sorts, which provides you with a perfectly obvious reason to be there. I need someone to do some legwork at Oxford University and on this occasion, it's not going to be me."

###

It had been a little over a year since I had completed my Masters at Merton and moved to London to work as a deputy to Bonneville's Directorship. So very much had happened in the last twelve months that I hardly recognised myself as the same man who'd arrived in Whitehall still wet behind the ears. In the time since I fell off the Oxford train, half delirious from lack of sleep and overwork, I'd learned all manner of skills, official and otherwise and had used them variously though not always happily. I was only now beginning to realise that the role for which Sir David was preparing me was a great deal bigger and significantly darker that he'd first led me to understand.

"Legwork?" I cocked an eyebrow. The word was shorthand in the department for anything which required one of us to venture out into the chilly reality of the world beyond the office. Usually, it also meant doing things on the QT; third-class travel, miserable hotels and often, something nasty at the end of it all. In the year I'd worked with Bonneville, I'd experienced a few daytrips after being taught how to look after myself, though I'd not yet had cause to use _that_ particular skillset. Not yet. Legwork in Oxford suddenly sounded unappealingly ominous. But still; it was Oxford. How bad could it be?

"When?" It was 1991, nearly the end of March and the British weather was bloody atrocious. It had been the coldest winter for years and the snow from last month's huge storm was still with us. Ten people had died so far from the extreme cold and trains and flights all over the country were being cancelled daily in the sub-zero temperatures. I had my own, larger office now. It was warm and nicely carpeted and had a window with a view. That the view consisted of a dead tree and the building opposite was neither here nor there. It was a pleasant, comfortable office where I could exercise my mind and not the soles of my feet. I hoped Bonneville was about to say July. Oxford is glorious in July.

"Next week," he puffed serenely on his cigarette. "The operation begins at Henley." His smile became shamefully artless. Henley at the end of March signified only one thing and I realised I was probably going to freeze to death before the week was out. Henley-on-Thames in March meant the Boat Race, where Oxford and Cambridge each fielded a coxed-eight and fought out an almost two-hundred-year-old rowing race on the Thames between Putney and Mortlake. I'd actually watched the racing shells of the two blues once during my time as a fresher at Oxford and it was barely interesting the _first_ time. I closed my eyes briefly and wondered if Gieves and Hawkes sold thermal underwear.

"Of course," my developing _savoir faire_ mustered a polite smile. I would go to an icy doom with at least the same fortitude as Captain Oates. "What's the operation?"

"I want you to meet an old friend of mine at Henley," Sir David pushed an ancient photograph across the desk; its colours so faded that red looked like brown. It had to have been taken at least twenty years before, when men wore shirts of alarming florality with dangerously pointed collars. A tall individual in his thirties with a sweep of blond hair and uncomfortably tight trousers, grinned white teeth at the camera. "His name is Judas Fisher and he has a diary for sale," Bonneville inhaled more of the fragrant smoke and looked thoughtful. "I would like to have that diary, though Judas might need a little persuading to give it to me."

Who in their right mind, I wondered, would burden their child with such a name?

Reading my thoughts with his usual ease, Bonneville looked contemplative. "His parents named him _Jude_ ; he changed the name himself when he became involved in the intelligence industry."

"Something of a giveaway, surely?" I murmured, still examining the photograph. By his stance, Fisher fancied himself as something of a charmer. The exotic flora in the background of the picture and the obvious ease of his body language in such an environment suggested the man was South African and, observing the obvious financial paucity of his situation, must have won a scholarship to Oxford, as he certainly lacked the wherewithal to pay his way. Given Bonneville's acknowledgement of him as 'an old friend', Fisher had, like Sir David and myself, studied at Merton. If Fisher was clever enough to be Bonneville's friend and had managed to avoid an untimely work-related demise, then it was probably a Rhodes scholarship, which made him a very smart man indeed.

"He made it his stock-in-trade," Sir David shook his head, a smile on his mouth. "Judas became so overt in his activities and so promiscuous in his undercover services that nobody knew with whom he might be working at any given time. Rumour has it that on at least one occasion he had the Russians and the Americans lined up with identical contracts in the same hotel in Istanbul," Bonneville grinned. "In adjacent rooms, in fact."

"And in all this time, nobody has taken it upon themselves to visit retribution upon Mr Fisher?" I was curious. If the photo had been taken in the nineteen-seventies, then the man had to be at least in his fifties or even early sixties by now. If Fisher had been involved in espionage gamesmanship all this time, there had to be an uncounted number of parties who would gladly see him dead and gone. What magic trick had kept him alive?

"Judas has a diary," Sir David interrupted my pondering. "A very detailed, meticulously-written record of every shady deal, every double-agent and corrupt official, every contract, phone conversation and every payment he has ever witnessed, heard of or been involved with, even in a peripheral capacity. The secrets that document could reveal would be of incredible value, even after all this time. To be able, finally, to connect the dots and draw lines of accountability from one faction to another ..." he inhaled deeply and shook his head. "It would answer unnumbered questions and put many unresolved concerns to bed once and for all and be of immense use to whoever held it."

"And of immense embarrassment to everyone who didn't," I observed.

"Quite," Bonneville raised his eyebrows and carefully stubbed out his cigarette.

"And Judas Fisher is going to be at Henley for the boat race?"

"He is," Sir David pursed his mouth. "His son rows for University College under his mother's name. Judas is planning to sell the diary to fund his child's set up in London once the boy's completed his finals. Apparently, there is to be something of an auction in Oxford after the race."

That 'the boy' and I were probably the same age struck me as mildly ironic.

"And do we know who else might be interested in the diary?" I asked speculatively. If it were half as important as Bonneville was suggesting, we weren't going to be the only ones making a play for it. The very next question in my head of course was that if Sir David was such an old friend, why not simply offer to buy the document outright and be done with it?

"All the major players, certainly; pretty much everyone who knows of its existence," Sir David smiled his innocent smile again. "Judas won't let me buy it privately on a point of principle, I've already asked but he insists that everyone should have the opportunity."

An experienced and resourceful agent with egalitarian principles? Curiouser and curiouser.

"And you expect me to be successful?" I was already compiling a list of different methods by which I might achieve such a goal. "How much are you prepared to pay for it?"

Bonneville pursed his lips and inhaled thoughtfully. "Up to ten," he said, eventually.

"Ten thousand?" I doubted it would suffice.

"Ten million," Sir David fixed me with his steady grey eyes. "This is important, Mycroft," he raised his eyebrows at me. "Do not bollox it up."

A covert auction of a lethally dangerous diary in Oxford on Boat Race Day with a bidding limit of ten million against the world's intelligence community? It would be a walk in the park.

###

I wasn't going to be carrying the money with me; nobody could cart that amount of hard cash around without looking suspicious. There would obviously be a Swiss bank account involved at some point into which the complete payment of the successful bid would be wired on completion of the transaction. I had been to a number of auctions with Mummy in her eternal, yet tedious hunt for antique Spode teapots, so I knew the basics, though the idea of bidding into the millions for something was vaguely exciting. I briefly wondered why Bonneville wanted me to handle the operation; there were any number of more experienced people in the department that could have done it. Then I realised this was another of Sir David's little tests; each one stretching me in a different direction; _sink or swim, Mycroft_.

It turned out that for once, I wasn't going to be shivering in some second rate bed-and-breakfast that served cold toast and warm gin. Clearly I might be called upon to make some sort of personal impression thus not only did I land a suite at the Old Bank Hotel, a beautiful place in the heart of Oxford, but on this occasion I also merited a car and driver; a big black shiny Jaguar and a large ex-Irish Guard by the name of Eddie. I confess, though for a moment only, I wished I had reason to go and visit my parents.

The weather remained foul even as Eddie and I made the relatively swift jaunt up to Oxford to claim my hotel room which would, had it not been sleeting so heavily, have possessed a lovely view of Oxford's dreaming spires. Once our rooms were confirmed, we turned the car around and headed down the Henley Road. Normally, the trip would take half the time it took to drive up to Oxford but with the weather being unspeakably vile, it took almost two hours to wend our way safely through thawing snow drifts interspersed with stretched of brown slush and patchy ice. Given the frequent awfulness of the British weather at this time of year, whoever had the idea that an annual challenge race in March would be _fun_ was patently insane; some arse from Cambridge, no doubt. Despite the national weather doing its best to hurl us into a ditch, we managed to arrive at Henley just before lunch.

Naturally, the place was a madhouse, no doubt the precise reason Judas Fisher had chosen this location as the pre-auction meet; somewhere too busy for any overt shenanigans. Fortunately, Eddie seemed to know precisely where to go and manoeuvred the big car along Church Avenue until the ancient Norman church of St Mary's came into sight. Despite there being a large sign advising the carpark in front of the church was under repair and not to be used, there were already a selection of parked and empty cars; I noted each number-plate in passing. Eddie was in the process of moving the 'keep out' sign into a more prominent position as I exited the Jaguar, uncertain as to the orders he'd been given. Was he to stay with the car or ...

"After you, Mr Holmes," he smiled lightly. That he was an ex-boxer with unarmed combat skills, carrying a gun strapped to his left side and a second weapon against his left calf made his insouciance all the more reassuring. Though Bonneville make sure I'd been trained to shoot, he'd not yet felt it necessary to arm me; perhaps he thought if I had a weapon, I'd be tempted to jump into dangerous situations. Or perhaps he didn't consider me a good enough shot. Either way, the issue was moot. I didn't need a gun if I had Eddie; Bonneville had chosen him as both my offence and defence.

The church was chilly and unwelcoming and the scent of old wood and candle smoke seeped out through the door as we walked inside, footsteps hollow on the stone flags. The Nave was wide and heavily ornamented with carved and painted stone arches and there were uncomfortable-looking wooden pews in rows on either side of the central aisle. Several of the long benches were already tenanted. I knew without a doubt I would be the youngest of all the players on this particular stage, not that it concerned me in the least, though it was a fact worth exploiting to my advantage. Men my age were usually stereotyped as inexperienced novices and I allowed the faintest faint frown of anxiety to compress my mouth. Let them think me afraid and nervous.

Eddie played his part perfectly, as if he already knew what was expected of him, which he may well have done. Sir David wouldn't have chosen him to be my, ah, _driver_ without sound reason. As I walked down the length of the Nave, I heard his light footsteps behind me, pausing as I came to an empty pew. I turned and met his gaze. He blinked slowly and stood with his arms at his sides, turning to face back towards the entrance once I was seated. I could already feel several curious pairs of eyes focusing on me.

There were eight other men in the church. Three of them looked like Eddie-clones and undoubtedly, that was their function. At this point, they were non-critical. The remaining five were a mixed bag of characters, three of whom I already knew by sight.

The man in the pew directly across the Nave from me was Pavel Zima; a senior Cultural Attaché based at the Russian embassy in Kensington. I knew him well enough by sight as he was a regular in the intelligence reports Bonneville had me analyse each week. In his fifties and still remarkably fit, Zima would look at me and see only a gangling youth, which was exactly what I wanted him to see. One bench closer to the door from Zima was Danik Ramanchuk from the Belarussian State Security Commission; he was in his forties and seemed particularly amused by my appearance. I'd not seen him in the flesh before but I'd heard he was an unpleasant man, rumoured to be a stalwart of the KGB. The third face I recognised belonged to Earl Lombard, a very well-dressed and very senior analyst in the CIA; I'd actually met him briefly several months before during a social bash at the American embassy in Grosvenor Square and wondered if he might remember me, though I doubted it. This left two strangers in the church against whom I'd have to bid and I disliked the notion of bidding against the unknown.

Focusing my gaze swiftly on the man sitting two pews behind me, it was clear his clothing, a very decent suit of Italian origin and most probably Zegna, was on the cutting-edge of acceptable dandification. His jet-black hair, dark eyes and the fact that he had a gold signet ring on his little finger made from an ancient Roman _Tremissis_ also suggested the Apennine Peninsula. It was his tie though, clearly a Viola Milano, that gave him aware as entirely Roman and its wearer a member of Italy's _Agentzia Esterna_. The last man, sitting furthest away from me was harder to read. He was tall, Caucasian, ashy-blond and tanned. His overcoat was business-like but nondescript and his face professionally impassive. There was nothing I could see ... wait. Another tie. I made a mental note to wear a wider variety of ties in the future so that I'd never be read as easily as these men. The blond man's dark-green tie was not new but it was the tiny embroidered gazelles, no, not gazelles ... _Springbok_ ... that gave the game completely away. The tie of the South African national rugby team. It looked very much as though Judas Fisher had some home-grown support, though I wasn't sure he'd appreciate it much.

So; Russia, America, Belarus, Italy, South Africa and Britain. I wasn't sure how much Ramanchuk might have to spend, but neither the US nor the recently defunct USSR would be happy underbidders. I assumed the Italian was acting on behalf of the European agencies, which meant he might have a considerable purse at his discretion and it was entirely on the cards that the South African might bid something other than money. A chance to come home, all sins forgiven, perhaps? Would that be enough for someone like Judas Fisher? I wondered if we would get to meet him here and now in this cold little church, or if this gathering was a ploy to psyche us all out, after all, he did rather enjoy playing games. My question was answered as the main entrance swung open and the man of the hour walked in, rugged up against the cold, with his old Merton college scarf wrapped jauntily around his throat, still bright cerise despite the years he'd had the thing.

Looking remarkable untroubled by the situation, Fisher strolled down the aisle, his bright blue eyes pausing on each of us in turn. He hesitated a little longer when he came to me, though whether that was because of my youth or because he knew I represented Bonneville, I have no idea. His smile seemed genuine, but he'd had an awful lot of practice.

"Gentlemen," Judas Fisher raised his voice and spread his palms wide. "Thank you for coming to my little party on such an unpleasant day, I appreciate the effort, believe me. The auction for my diary will begin in exactly ..." he checked his wristwatch, "twenty-one hours' time in Oxford. I will have the item with me for the successful bidder, however in order to participate, I require a show of good faith from the serious bidders," his smile never wavered.

"Good faith?" Zima sounded vaguely bored. "What kind of show?"

"I know everyone here has access to the new electronic mail that Berners-Lee recently released from CERN," Fisher nodded. "I am sending each of your departments a message via this _e-mail_ which contains the necessary details to deposit a sum of one million American dollars into a numbered account in Switzerland. I will be in direct contact with my financial advisor in the interim, and unless I receive your opening bid within the next twelve-hours, you may consider yourself uninvited from the party. However, once the deposit _has_ been made, I will send you a second message with details of the precise location and time of the auction and how to get there." Nobody moved, though a look of disgust crossed the Belarussian's face. It seems Danik Ramanchuk wasn't overly impressed. The man's eyes flickered briefly towards Zima though the gesture was so fleeting, I almost missed it.

"You expect us all to give you a million dollars on your word alone that you have such a diary?" He made no pretence at understanding. "I have never seen this thing; how do I know it is worth anything, let alone a million dollars?"

"An excellent question," Fisher nodded, his smile apparently without limit. "In the first message I'm sending to each of your respective offices, I'll also include a two-page excerpt of a specific incident your various governments with undoubtedly find most interesting," he lifted his eyebrows. "There will be no other communication until we meet again in Oxford," he nodded, glancing at each of us again. "Until tomorrow, gentlemen," the blond man, his hair already running to grey, turned and walked jauntily back through the entrance as if he'd just popped in to examine the Norman carvings.

I knew Bonneville would sanction the initial payment without a qualm, though I was curious as to what diary excerpt Fisher would use to accompany his account number. Something from the cold war days, or something a little more recent? Judas Fisher would surely be aware of Sir David's involvement, so perhaps something of particular interest for him? There was little point staying in the church any longer and so I stood and walked smartly towards the entrance, looking neither left nor right as I did. Let the rest of them examine each other's faces to see who was willing to pay the piper.

Given the chill in the air and the fact that it was going to be a very long day, one way or another, I felt both Eddie and I would do better with something warm inside us and, once we were back in the car, kept my eyes open for a reasonable-looking café or restaurant. There were several that seemed passable but they were all full at this time of day with all the crowds down for the regatta. I remembered a little, out-of-the way place that used to be a hangout of students and I gave Eddie directions. Away from the centre of town, it was also away from the bustle and traffic. The Jaguar slid easily into a parking space and the both of us headed inside. A licenced restaurant, it had a variety of seating; tables in an open central section, high-walled booths around the perimeter and small, high tables and chairs near the bar. Discretion always being the better part of valour meant that I headed immediately towards an empty booth towards the rear of the restaurant, allowing Eddie to take the seat facing the door in order that he could do his job without interference. The waiter departed after taking our order, and I pulled my phone from an inner pocket.

"Sir David," I was put through immediately. "As a show of good faith, Fisher requires one million dollars to be in a Swiss bank before midnight," I said, omitting the usual politenesses. "He's going to send a message to us via the new electronic mail system with an excerpt from the diary to prove his _bona fides_ ," I added. "You may want to check who's on computer reception this afternoon as they might see something you'd rather remained unseen."

"And the auction proper?" Bonneville wasn't much for chit-chat either.

"Tomorrow morning in Oxford. I'd give good odds it will be in Merton's grounds somewhere," I said. "Judas Fisher is clearly sentimental about the place; it's where I would have chosen."

"And the other bidders?"

"Zima, Ramanchuk, Lombard. There's a dapper Italian, early forties, probably belongs to Agentzia Esterna, and a tall South African who likes his rugby."

Bonneville was silent for a moment as he thought.

"Did the Italian wear a heavy gold signet ring?"

"Yes; left hand, small finger."

"Luca Alessi," Bonneville was positive. "Smart bugger; used to be a political analyst for the UN before they caught him tweaking orders for the peacekeepers. He works for the Belgian State Security Service out of Brussels," he said. "The other a South African, you say?"

"Dresses like one, looks the type," I murmured down the phone. "Never seen him before though."

"Could be one of a number of possibilities," Bonneville sounded vaguely dismissive. "I'll make enquiries and let you know."

"There is one other thing," I said slowly. "Zima and Ramanchuk."

"Yes?" I could tell Sir David was listening carefully.

"There's something going on between them; they may even be contemplating removing the seller from the sale."

"I see," Bonneville sounded meditative. Obviously, if neither the Russian or the Belarussian could have the diary, perhaps they'd agreed that nobody else would. Eliminate the seller and who knows where the diary might go?

"I assume you'll arrange the deposit?" I said.

"Of course, as soon as we get the message," Sir David seemed almost blasé about the job. Perhaps he was used to authorising multi-million pay-outs. That one day I might be in the same position was mildly intriguing, though what I might ever want vast sums of money for was a mystery.

"Are you going directly to Oxford now?"

"Thought I'd stay and catch the race," I looked about the restaurant. "The auction isn't until tomorrow morning and I never really enjoyed the race while I was a student; thought I might give it one more go to be on the safe side. If Fisher's son is rowing, it's likely he'll be hanging around as well. It might be an idea for someone to be watching his back, as it were."

"Of course, Mycroft," Bonneville sounded as if he were nodding. "Let me know if you see ... anything. I'll be in touch once the deposit has been made."

The line went dead.

Almost at that precise moment, the waiter returned with a large plate of unexciting fettuccine Alfredo for Eddie and a smaller bowl of a risqué lobster bisque for me. While I was waiting for the inevitable pepper to be ground and the usual niceties to be over, I heard a babble of voices raised in the opposite corner of the restaurant, students, most likely; this place always did attract us ... the _younger_ element, with its warm interior and solid meals. There were ripples of laughter and a rising wave of raucous joshing. It was becoming something of an irritation when the noise suddenly subsided as a single voice made itself heard above the general clamour.

"Which is _why_ ," said the voice, "you always check the balls of their thumbs."

I closed my eyes briefly, my hunger suddenly evaporating. What the _hell_ was my brother doing in Henley on today of all days?

###

There was little hope of escaping observation; Sherlock was indefatigable when it came to noticing things other people preferred unseen. Still, there was a small possibility Eddie and I might remain invisible when Sherlock and his little clique departed _en masse_. Of course, I was acutely intrigued by the fact that my brother had actually found himself a group in the first place. If there were anyone less likely than he to form simultaneous friendships with multiple persons, I had yet to hear of it. It wasn't that Sherlock was unable to be personable when he chose to be, but rather that he never really saw the point of it. If he gained so little from personal interaction, he automatically assumed that nobody else did either. As a child, he tolerated people only because Mummy, on countless occasions, threatened to cut his pocket money if he didn't. Now that he had been at Cambridge for over a year, I somehow doubted such a threat would hold much sway. _So what was he doing in Henley with a bunch of other students on Race Day?_ Eddie had observed my grimace but initially said nothing, though I saw his eyes flickering around the increasingly crowded restaurant. If only he would remain silent until we left ...

"Something wrong, Mr Holmes?"

Damn.

"No," I bent my head to the soup. "Just thinking."

There was an increase in the decibel-level from the far side of the room and I ventured a brief hope that my brother's little band were on their way out. It was only when I heard a single set of footsteps crossing the floor towards out booth that I knew the game was up.

"Hello, Sherlock," I said, not lifting my head.

"Someone you want to talk with, Mr Holmes?" Eddie was nothing if not solicitous. Bonneville had picked me a nanny as well as a bodyguard.

"Not really," I smiled at the older man. "Though I doubt I'll have any choice in the matter; my brother, Sherlock," I announced, sitting back and meeting my younger brother's eyes for the first time in almost a year.

"I'll just park myself over here then," Eddie was politeness epitomised as he moved himself and his lunch to an adjacent table. "Give you some privacy." With barely a glance, Sherlock slipped into Eddie's vacated seat and folded his arms on the table, leaning forward to stare at me.

A year had changed him quite significantly. Even though Sherlock had only recently turned eighteen, his face already held the refined lines of the adult man he would become. His eyes and skin were clear though I felt I detected ... something in the lines around his mouth. He was far too young to have yet turned to a life of dissolution and vice, so I put the feeling out of my thoughts. As usual, his hair was too long and he was wearing the oddest assortment of clothing; jeans and a Cambridge light-blue rugby shirt under a black suit jacket. What might have happened to the remainder of the suit I preferred not to ask, but it was a decent jacket. Perhaps he was trying to fit in with the crowd.

"Hello Mycroft," he lifted a piece of the bread that had accompanied my soup and dipped it in the bowl before nibbling the result. Stealing others' food was a precociously vile habit he'd learned at home and because he so rarely ate anything like a proper meal, we tended to indulge him. I brought my soup spoon smartly down on the back of his hand.

"If you want soup, order your own," I said, wiping the bowl of the spoon on my napkin before continuing to eat.

" _Mr Holmes_ , is it?" he stage-whispered, leaning forward again. "Here on business?"

The very last thing I wanted was my vexatious little brother involved in anything to do with Judas Fisher. I remained utterly silent and continued to eat my lunch.

Sherlock simply sat and stared.

"Aren't you afraid you'll lose track of your ... friends?" I sipped another spoonful of the rapidly cooling bisque, though I had little appetite for it now.

"Hardly _friends_ ," Sherlock leaned back, continuing to nibble the bread. "An experiment I'm trialling to see how radically people change their attention spans in different sized conversational groups," he shrugged. "I don't even know their names." He smiled and dropped the crust back onto the plate. "Anyway, I'm far more interested in what _you're_ doing here, dressed up like a City banker, with your Minder close at hand," he flicked his eyes across to Eddie. "Something to do with spies and espionage, is it?"

I stopped pretending to eat.

"If you are unable to display even the slightest level of adult discretion, I will have no compunction about calling the local police and having you detained indefinitely," I growled. "This is not a _game_ , Sherlock."

His entire face brightened. "So it _is_ something to do with your work," his grin was impossible. "Oh, _do_ let me come with you and help, whatever it is you're doing," he looked suddenly young again; a lanky fourteen year-old, falling over his own feet.

"Sherlock ..." I shook my head, unable to find the words. "This really is not some sort of fun-experience that you can simply come along and join in," I shook my head again, exasperated. "There are very serious things at stake here."

Throwing himself back against the padded seat, my brother's eyes narrowed and glittered as he went into full analytical mode. I sighed inwardly; there was little chance I'd be able to get rid of him now unless some distraction took him elsewhere.

"It's cold and miserable and you hate this kind of weather," he murmured, almost to himself. "You have no earthly interest in the Boat Race, so there's no logical reason you'd be in Henley on this particular day unless there was a very pressing reason," he began to read me like a book. "You're here with some very high-quality muscle masquerading as your driver, which means you also have a car worthy of such an indulgence," his eyes flicker over my suit. "You're wearing a relatively new suit, looks like a Poole," he added assessingly. "You want to look good, affluent and adult beyond your years," he added thoughtfully. "You're down here to meet someone, or several someones," he nodded. "You don't want them to think you young and inexperienced," Sherlock began to grin again. "You're up to no good at all, brother mine, so tell me all, or I'll simply have to trail you for the rest of the day until I find out for myself."

I reminded myself that the minimum penalty for premeditated murder was fifteen years.


	2. Chapter 2

I checked my wristwatch. It was a nice watch, a restored Jaeger-Lecoultre; slender, elegant and, all puns aside, timelessly classic. One day, when I wasn't burdened with a cumbersome mortgage, I might even indulge myself with a brand new one. Until that moment however, this beauty would do. I looked at it pointedly for several seconds as my mind sprinted through available alternatives though in the end, I opted for a direct approach. Fortuitously, there actually was something with which I could use my brother's assistance, not that I was going to let him know that.

"I warn you Sherlock, if you hinder me or do anything that puts my objective at risk, I'll not hesitate to have you arrested or to ask my associate to lock you in the boot of the car until I'm done and I don't care what tales you choose to tell Mummy about it; I am doing a job of work and if you transgress, I will take _steps_ , do you understand?

"Then you'll let me help?" he leaned forward on the table again, an expression of gratified excitement shaping his face.

"There is one thing I want to do and, dressed as I am, might be somewhat conspicuous, however _you_ ," I gazed at my brother's less than formal attire, "will be invisible in the crowd," I paused, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Do you genuinely want to help me? Can I trust you?"

"As long as it's nothing tedious," Sherlock blinked thoughtfully. "I refuse to be dumped somewhere to hold your place, for example."

"I want you to get as close as you can to the Oxford rowing team and look for a man called Judas Fisher who will be watching the Number Three rower," I said, laying my own hands on the table in front of me. "He's the oarsman's father," I added, providing a swift description of Fisher not forgetting to mention the Merton scarf. "I don't want you to talk or interact with either of them, I just want to know if you see the man anywhere near the student," I looked at my brother carefully. "I was going to do this myself, but another student doing the watching, even one from the opposing team as it were, is far less likely to attract overt attention in the scrum of people out there. You don't even need to get terribly close to either of them; as long as you have the father and preferably also the son in your sights, that will be more than enough."

"And once I've located either or both?" Sherlock's conspiratorial smile was quite indecent. "Are you surveilling this Fisher chap?"

"I'm surveilling the men who might be watching _him_ , and if you can help me do this, I stand a better chance of finding _them_. Once you've sighted him, phone me," I said, handing him one of my cards. I'd sent Sherlock one of the latest Nokia's for a Christmas present and I had no doubt it would be the kind of toy he'd love. I'd have been very surprised if he didn't have it with him.

"You've changed numbers," he said, glancing at my card.

"I've changed offices," I raised my eyebrows. "Phone me when you have eyes on either Judas Fisher or his son or both."

"And then what?" Sherlock frowned. "What happens after we've found him?"

"And then I watch the people around him," I hesitated, wondering how much I could legitimately disclose. "I can't tell you why, though I can tell you that Fisher might be in danger and I want to ensure nothing bad happens to him here today in Henley," I finished. It was the truth, even if it was an incomplete one. "He's an important man."

"So what do we do if we don't find him, or if he leaves?" Sherlock was frowning harder now as he realised I wasn't giving him the full picture. "Are we going to follow him?"

"I will but you most certainly are not going to do anything else," I pursed my lips. "The people who might want to harm Judas Fisher won't hesitate to attack anyone who gets in their way; these are seriously dangerous men, Sherlock ... why do you thing I've been provided with Eddie?" I flicked my eyes towards the adjacent table where my bullet-proof vest was finishing his lunch.

"Oh, very well," Sherlock finished stabbing my new office number into his phone's memory. All my incoming calls at the office were instantly diverted to my mobile, no matter where I was. The calls could be traced too, if necessary; a little extra precaution I'd instituted and added to all the phones in the department. "But I may have to walk about a bit until I find him," he said mildly. Too mildly. I should have been suspicious at Sherlock's sudden acquiescence but I was simply glad to have my brother co-operating with me rather than fighting. As soon as Eddie was done, we headed to the Jaguar. I ignored Sherlock's quiet laughter as he saw the car; any further attention to his deductions at this point would only encourage him. We were heading generally towards the river but the crowds were becoming impossible to pass.

"Park the car," I said. "We'll have to walk from here."

There wasn't much else to do except follow the surge of people down towards Thameside Street; it was easy to see across the far side of the river where the racing teams were already getting themselves organised for the series of races that would take place before the university race just after four o'clock. This was the point where Sherlock, casually dressed as he was, might actually make himself useful.

"One of the students at the restaurant is on the Cambridge boat support crew," Sherlock caught sight of the face he was looking across the river for and threw up a hand in a wave, a broad smile stretching his mouth. "I'll go and hang around with him which will enable me to get closer to both the teams before the race," as he turned to me, his wide smile vanished as if it had never been. "It'll get me close enough to see if your man Fisher turns up."

"Remember, Sherlock," I rested my gloved hand on his forearm. "All you are to be is an additional pair of unsuspected eyes, nothing more than that. Are we absolutely clear?"

"Yes, yes, _god_. Yes," he brushed my hand away and loped off to make it across Henley Bridge before the crowd became impassable. I realised immediately that I needed a much greater height to be able to see everything, but there was no convenient public building I could have accessed, no nearby clock tower. I turned, looking for the nearest possible viewpoint and saw the private house behind me was four stories high and had people hanging out of the upstairs windows. That was no good for me, I needed room to turn and look in different directions. There was a house next door ... no, not a house, an hotel! _Baltic Court_ , a white-painted private hotel with two moderate-sized balconies facing the front, overlooking the road, the river and, best of all, the site across the river where the competitors were even now gearing up for the various races. There were people standing on balconies at the side of the building but the two balconies at the front were empty, one on the second floor and one immediately above. That was the one I wanted.

"Stay here and keep your eyes open for anyone from the church," I instructed Eddie. If you see any of the key players, call me," I added, before pointing to the unoccupied upper balcony. "I'm going up there." My protector nodded before going off to find a patch of relatively empty space in order to scan the sea of faces. Turning, I strode swiftly into the front of the building and up to the reception desk where a middle-aged woman sat, knitting.

"The room on the top floor with the balcony, facing the river," I said. "If it's not already occupied, I'd like to book it now please." The woman looked at me a little oddly.

"You want to book the Bridal Suite?" she said, frowning. "Usually we have that one booked out long before it's actually wanted," she sniffed and looked at me sideways. "This is a respectable hotel, you realise?"

Tempted to leap over the counter and grab the key myself, I smiled instead. "I actually don't want the room at all," I amended my request, shrugging harmlessly. "I want the balcony for a couple of hours; my brother's in the university race later this afternoon, you see, and I was rather hoping that ..."

Her face clearing, the woman nodded understandingly. "Well, that's a different matter, then," she folded her arms. "But I'll still have to book the room out to you for the time you'll be using the balcony," she said, pushing the registration book towards me. "Just fill in these details and let me have your credit card, and I'll do the rest."

"I think this should take care of the couple of hours I might want the room," I had no wish to have my credit card noted anywhere and instead pulled three, crisp fifty-pound notes from my wallet and laid them on the reception counter. It was at least twice the amount she'd get if she rented to room out to me legally. I watched the avarice rise in her eyes.

"Oh well, go on then," the woman plucked the fifties into the air and smiled roguishly. "The things you young men get up to at them posh universities of yours. "Now don't make no mess up there and, oh ... hang on a sec," she said, ducking down to rummage along the shelves underneath the counter before standing back up clutching an old pair of binoculars. It was exactly what I needed but hadn't dared hoped to find.

"Wonderful, thank you," I had no need to force a smile; the binoculars alone were worth the money.

###

In the process of finding the balcony's best vantage point, I was about to put the binoculars into action when Bonneville rang.

"Fisher's electronic-mail just arrived," he spoke tersely. "The Swiss bank details, everything."

By 'everything', I assumed Sir David referred to the promised diary excerpt. Given his tone, I further understood that the excerpt detailed something of which he'd rather not have been reminded. There was nothing for me to say so I waited in silence.

"The bastard's only gone and sent the transcript of a meeting he and I had where we discussed the need to permanently retire the Russian Ambassador's _Chef de Mission_ back in 'eighty-two," there was a vague subtext of remorse in Bonneville's words. "Naturally, the bloody Russian only went and shot himself the very next week ..." I could almost see Bonneville shaking his head. "Of course, if it were to hit the papers, I'd probably have to resign from the department if only to minimise the political fallout."

"Can the contents of the discussion be proven in a court of law?"

"At certain levels, Mycroft, it doesn't matter if there's enough proof to satisfy the law," Sir David sighed wearily. "There's sufficient circumstantial truth in the minutes of other official meetings at the time to make this one look plausible at the very least. I would be tried and convicted in the court of public opinion and that would very much be that, I'm afraid."

I immediately wondered what examples Judas Fisher would have sent the others. If he sent such an excerpt to us, I could only surmise he'd have done the same with everyone else; a nice little taster to get everyone's blood up. The Russians probably had something on their interminable leadership crises; the Italian and Belarussian most likely received a note on the corruption of their administration. God only knew what the South Africans and the Americans got, but if it were on the same level as us, then everyone involved would be ramping up their damage control. If Fisher had been in danger before, his life was seriously in jeopardy now; everyone in the church would be after his head, and, given the way the secret services leaked information like sieves, the diary's potential for causing chaos would be all over the place within twenty-four hours and Fisher would be a dead man walking. That we had to be the ones to get the diary now became paramount; I had little desire to shoulder Sir David's burden quite yet.

"Then we need to bring Fisher in from the cold," I murmured the words without conscious thought. "He's a loose cannon; it mightn't have mattered before but now he's lit the fuse, everyone worthy of membership in the intelligence collective will be looking for him with less than warmth in their hearts," I said, bringing the binoculars up to my face and beginning to scan the far bank of the Thames. Almost immediately, I saw Sherlock apparently chatting intimately with another Cambridge student among the crew at the edge of the river. My eyes flitted down a little to the Oxford camp. It looked as if my brother was suddenly taking photographs for different people with their own cameras, enabling him to jump up onto a raised wall to do so. _Clever_. From up there, he'd be able to see a lot more than merely standing in the crowd. I hoped a lot of people wanted photographs.

"Have you been able to locate him?" Bonneville's voice in my ear brought me back to the situation at hand. It wasn't a matter now of wanting to keep Fisher safe; it had turned into something of a life-and-death scenario. I was a little surprised that anyone as experienced and clever at his job as Judas Fisher obviously was, would make such a target of himself.

"Was there anything else in the email?" I asked, still scanning the crowd below with the binoculars. There were thousands of people up and down the riverbank of the racecourse, hundreds in the region of the teams and dozens in the actual boat enclosure. But no sign of Judas Fisher or his bright cerise college scarf; perhaps he'd had some sense and taken it off. "Anything else apart from the payment instructions and the diary extract?" There was something of a pause at the other end of the conversations.

"Actually, there was," Sir David spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "An advisory note about the diary itself," he added. "Apparently, Judas has to keep the thing into an argon-sealed case to preserve the inks which, he says, were not always good quality given where he was when he wrote in the damn thing."

I knew a little about the use of Argon gas in the preservation of historical manuscripts in museums and assumed that most important documents that used organic materials would eventually be preserved in this manner, at least until the human race discovered a more effective way of saving their cultural history. I also recalled Sherlock telling me he used the same gas in a glovebox when conducting some of his more incendiary experiments. A Noble gas in more ways than one, then. Of course, this begged the question of just how good a state the diary was actually in; if it had followed Judas Fisher around for the entirety of his professional life, it would likely be a sad and battered thing by now. Dry and highly flammable at the very least. If we couldn't be certain of securing the diary for ourselves, some judicious arson might be the next best thing.

"Then we know he's going to be carrying the diary around in either a large attaché case or a small suitcase or similar," I said. "If we can find out where he's staying, it might simply be more sense to steal the thing and worry about the details later."

"All well and good if we were able to locate Judas and track him back to his lair," Bonneville sighed heavily. "I can flood Henley and even Oxford with our people if you think it will help?"

"If he's as intelligent as you tell me, all it will do is drive him further under cover," I scanned more of the crowd around the Oxford sculls; if Fisher were anywhere, he had to be there somewhere. The crowd was becoming too think on the riverbank for anyone to see anything from more than twenty feet away. If his son was the only reason he'd be in Henley in the first instance, then Fisher would want to be somewhere with as clear a view of the boat and the rowers for the maximum length of time both before and during the race ... a sudden thought occurred and I switched my scan away from the riverbank to the river itself.

 _Clever man._

Judas Fisher wasn't attempting to watch his son from among all the many hundreds of onlookers and support-crew in the crowd; he'd not be sure of getting a decent view and besides, he was a _very_ smart man. If I suspected representatives of some of the most powerful intelligence agencies in the world would be after his blood, then odds were good that he did too. No, Fisher wasn't going to risk either missing his son's race or making himself an easy target. I grinned and held the phone closer to my mouth.

"Fisher's on one of the support boats," I said. "It's the only logical vantage point for him to cover all his needs," I added. "He can watch his son from the closest place possible, all the way to the end of the race and then simply carry on up the Thames until he reaches Oxford, going exactly where he needs to go with as little fuss as possible," I laughed softly. Judas Fisher was indeed staying ahead of the pack. Still holding Bonneville on the line, I turned my attention to the small entourage of pint-sized cruisers and power-boats that hung back at the far side of Henley Bridge. There were three small motorboats within range of the start line, though even with the binoculars, it was impossible to see inside their darkened cabins. I'd have to wait until the flotilla motored past my current position before I'd get a good enough look. "I'll let you know once the race starts," there was no point keeping Sir David hanging on the line. In the interim, there seemed little point in keeping my brother in the fray either, especially as he had absolutely no chance at all of spotting Fisher, assuming he was on one of the small white boats as I knew he must be.

Sliding my phone into an inside pocket, I swept the binoculars across the crowd to where Sherlock had been standing only minutes before. To my relief, he was still there, though no longer acting as impromptu group photographer; he appeared to be in deep discussion with two other young men, one in an Oxford sweatshirt and the second in some dull grey t-shirt and denim jacket. I wondered what on earth my brother might find so compelling about such company when what I observed made me recoil with disbelief and dread.

Small white packets discreetly handed over in return for what I could only assume was money. The packets were slipped into pockets and the trio broke up and went their own ways. I felt my heart thud horribly as my brain kicked in to tell me what I'd just witnessed. Sherlock had just purchased drugs. I could only guess what type of substance it was but the behaviour alone screamed its illegality. What sort of stuff came in small white packets? My mind grabbed at the task while leaving the rest of me in shocked paralysis. Methamphetamines? Heroin? _Cocaine?_ What was Sherlock taking? My mind took flight in alarm while my body leaned hard against the balcony merely to stay upright. This explained the strange lines I had seen on his face; the face of a _user_ despite his tender years. I scrubbed a gloved hand hard across my mouth as a wave of nausea washed through me. My parents could never know this; Sherlock always had been Mummy's favourite and this would devastate her. I breathed hard and slow until I felt my heart lessen its manic pounding. There was nothing I could do from up here and, in all probability, nothing much that I could do down there. But there had to be _something_ I could change or prevent or _fix_ and when I had resolved what that action might be, no obstruction would stop me. I had no choice but to try save my brother from himself, regardless of what he wanted.

Yanking my focus back to the job in hand, I lifted the binoculars and looked once again for Sherlock, only to see him standing back on the same low wall, looking around for Fisher. I pulled out my phone and, with a deep breath, speed-dialled his number.

"Mycroft," my brother's voice was unchanged. "I've checked everywhere; your man is not here, at least, he's not here now."

"He's on one of the boats," I responded, my voice determined and level, almost offhand, acutely aware that I could not let Sherlock know anything was wrong, or even let him suspect that it might be. I was going to have to play this very carefully indeed. "There's nothing more you can do. I'm going to get the car and head off to Oxford, see if I can get there before he does." It would half-kill me to leave my little brother alone now, knowing what I knew, but I had the job to do first. Making the choice to send Sherlock back to his drug-running friends made me feel worse than before.

"Let me come with you," Sherlock didn't know I was watching him from on high and I could see him looking around, probably expecting me to walk right up to him, trying to see where I was. "Let me come to Oxford with you and help," he added, almost pleadingly. I could see the expression on his face, the hope on his face. Oh god.

I couldn't possibly allow my brother to become embroiled in my affairs, I couldn't. My work was literally life and death and I simply couldn't bring Sherlock into it. If he was caught up in something bad, if he were hurt or worse ... _I couldn't._ If Sir David ever knew I'd done this, I'd be risking my very future ... I could not bring anyone with me. But neither could I let him go to a lonely room with a needle and a tourniquet and god only knew what else. _I couldn't._

"Meet me over the bridge in front of the Baltic Court Hotel," I heard my voice, so it had to be me saying the words. "I think I may be able to use your help when I get up to Oxford though you understand you must follow my instructions to the letter?"

"On my way," he sounded excited and pleased and I could feel my heart crashing inside my chest as I watched him break into a loping run, dodging between people in the crowd, his scarf flying out behind him, his dark curls bouncing.

###

The good thing about not being able to locate Judas Fisher on the riverbank meant that none of the others from the church would be able to track him either. While keeping an eye on my brother through the binoculars, I'd also been looking for any familiar faces from the earlier meeting and, thus far, had seen none of them. This lack might be explained in several different ways but I chose to interpret it positively. Even when the race had begun and the support boats drew level with us on the riverbank, it was impossible to see inside two of the smallest because of their dark-tinted windows. Positive that Judas Fisher was in one of them, I made an executive decision to take the road to Oxford and be there waiting for him when he eventually arrived. Fisher's boat might be able to maintain a steady speed all the way upstream to Oxford but he'd dare not go too fast for fear of being noticed; no, he'd want to be nice and inconspicuous while there was the slightest chance he might be spotted. This meant that, while it was possible for a speedy little motorboat to zip upriver from Henley in a few hours, Fisher would be taking things a lot more prudently. He needed to remain invisible for as long as possible if his goal was to berth at an Oxford jetty unheralded and unnoticed. He would want to slip away into the night in preparations for the auction the following morning.

My plan was to let the South African think he remained below the radar, all the while observing the man once he reached his goal, in order to locate the safehouse he almost certainly had. If he knew the various intelligence organisations were chasing him, Judas Fisher couldn't afford to be caught out in the open and no hotel or Bed-and-Breakfast would be a safe haven for anyone in his position. He had a private den somewhere in or very near Oxford and I needed to find it before anyone else did. Not that I cared overmuch about Fisher's safety, but it would be where the diary was being kept and that was now my primary target. It would not be an easy thing to find him; there were innumerable places where a small boat might moor for the night, any one of a dozen different docks, wharves and quays. Even with help, it would be nigh impossible for me to locate Fisher in time. Which meant I needed to know where he was most likely to make land before he did so.

I had brought Sherlock back with me to the Jaguar, directing Eddie to take us up to Oxford and The Old Bank Hotel. Fisher would be unlikely to arrive until at least a couple of hours after we did.

"There's something the matter," Sherlock looked at me sideways. "What is it?"

Tempted to pour out my fears and anxieties about him, I banished the notion the instant it arrived. Confession may be good for the soul but it would be bloody idiotic in any short-term conversation with my brother. No, that discussion would be reserved for another day. I knew Sherlock better than anyone; if I could only keep him occupied helping me long enough, the urge for the drugs might pass. Perhaps. It was worth a try.

"I need to know where Fisher is going to moor his boat tonight in Oxford," I said quickly. "There is an inordinate selection of places he might use and I won't have time to check them all before tomorrow morning," I lifted my eyes and allowed Sherlock to glimpse a flicker of my very genuine concern. "I have to know where Fisher is going to dock tonight so that I can get there first and then follow him back to his safe house."

Sherlock lay back against the luxuriously padded seat, his gaze partly on the fawn fabric liner of the car's roof and partly a million miles away in thought.

"It won't be at any commercial wharf or jetty," he said absently. "Too open and unpredictable. If he's trying to stay out of sight, then anything where he might have to sign something or provide identification is out."

"Nor will he want to use anywhere too popular or too populated for the same reason," I added. "It's going to be somewhere easy to access but off the beaten track, as it were."

"You haven't actually told me why you're after the man," Sherlock turned to face me. "Are you going to assassinate him?"

"I'm not a bloody assassin, Sherlock," I muttered waspishly. "I'm nothing more than a low-key analyst who's been asked to keep a look out for Fisher," I paused, wondering how much I dare tell him. "He has a book of recorded data that my department would like to have but it's very possible that other people, people not as, shall we say, as _civilised_ as me, are also after the book and will now stop at nothing to have it," I paused again. "I want it first."

Sherlock smiled lazily. "You sound entirely too serious to be a low-key anything these days," he said. "Stop trying to fob me off with half-truths. If you need my help, and I think you really do, then I want the whole story without any rubbish."

"You agreed to follow my instructions and do as I asked," I retorted acidly. "I said nothing about giving you a running commentary of the situation."

"Then drop me off and I'll hitch back to campus," Sherlock folded his arms and looked insufferably smug. I couldn't tell him about the diary, but neither did I want him going anywhere near his student associates in the immediate future. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. My choices were abominably limited.

"Fisher has a book my department wants very badly," I tried to keep the story as bare as possible. "I am not the only one tasked to get it but the others, the people I hoped to spot in Henley, may be willing to kill Fisher to get this book. I have no interest in anything but the book itself, though I am prepared to destroy it rather than allow it to fall into unfriendly hands," I stared deep into my brother's eyes. "Do you see now just how important this is and why I need your help?"

"You're not lying," Sherlock held my gaze and frowned slightly. "You really are determined to get this book, whatever it is."

"I am," I nodded, unblinking. "Will you help me?"

Silent for a moment, he nodded briefly.

"The first thing we need to work out is the kind of place this man Fisher is likely to go for," he lay back against the seat, stretching his legs out in front of his as far as he could.

"He'll be looking for somewhere discreet but not so far away from the madding crowd that a moored motorboat would be cause for comment," I said thoughtfully. "Nor would he go for any of the private residential jetties; they'd all be closed up for winter and any unknown boat suddenly appearing would probably have people calling the police, no," I shook my head slowly. "The same thing goes for using the longboat moorings," I nibbled my lower lip.

"What about service wharfs?" Sherlock turned to me again. "Aren't there such places where boats can be moored overnight or for however long they need in order to be cleaned or maintained of whatever?"

"Yes, there are," I spoke slowly as my mind listed all such places within a two-mile radius of Oxford. "But there are documents to sign and identification needed," I frowned. This was quite true, but it set me thinking of another possibility. "Boatyards."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he grasped the possibilities. He nodded. "Any boatyards within reach?"

"Osney boatyard and marina," I blinked as a clear image of the place filled my inner eye. "Small, usually contains variously-sized craft but quiet at night because everyone either lives in Oxford or has left their boat for day-time maintenance," I added. "The arrival of a small cruiser would raise no questions, especially if it went directly to a pre-arranged mooring."

"And is this marina far from town?" I didn't need to look at my brother to hear his grin.

"It's bloody well smack in the middle of Oxford," I felt a fierce surge of success. It was the only place Judas Fisher would choose.


	3. Chapter 3

For all his size, I was impressed at how silently Eddie could move. When I said it would only take a few minutes for me to check on Osney boatyard's most recently arrived motor cruiser, he'd looked dreadfully offended and suggested, somewhat stiffly, that he be permitted to do his job.

We'd made the return trip back up the A4013 in much better time than the drive down to Henley; the unusual amount of traffic that day had all but cleared the road of melting snow, which helped enormously. As soon as it was clear we needed to get to the boatyard if there was any chance of tracking the South African, I told Eddie to head directly there since we couldn't be entirely sure when our prey would arrive. I was confident Judas Fisher would show up at some point: for all its grand name of 'marina', it really was more of a boatyard on a side-water of the river and somewhat off the beaten track for non-locals. It would have been amazing if anyone else from the church gathering had even heard of the place, let alone knew what or where it was. Bonneville clearly had some idea of what was likely to happen when he asked me to handle this little jaunt since no stranger to the city would have any idea of where to look for things others wanted kept secret. Being a Merton man himself, Fisher would possess precisely the same information and once again, I tipped a mental hat to Sir David's prescience.

The light was gone by the time we made it back to Oxford, though one of the new pieces of tech being fitted to all the cars in our department enabled Eddie to see exactly where he needed to go. I'd never used one of the modern satellite navigation devices before but he waxed lyrical about the thing all the way through the dark streets until we arrived at the boatyard's gates.

I had no idea what Sherlock had been up to in the last few days or nights but was intensely relieved when he announced his intention to sleep for the drive back up to town. Getting no argument from me, he promptly stretched out his legs, folded his arms and dropped off almost immediately into a slumber unaffected by anything in or outside of the Jaguar. His sleep provided an opportunity for me to once again study his face and features; the fine lines around his eyes and mouth relaxing in sleep until I could once more see the younger brother I'd left behind when I went up to college. At the time, I'd dreaded leaving him without anyone close enough to quell the worst of his intellectual rampages and clearly something had gone very wrong if he was now dabbling in drugs. I say 'dabble' as his face did not yet exhibit the awful waxy-pale complexion of an habitué, nor had his eyes lost their usual clarity or focus though if my brother was using regularly, such changes could only be a matter of time. I desperately wanted to talk with him about this but dared not broach the subject until I was clear of my current obligation and had time to give him what support I could. I was horribly torn between my job and my family and realised, with sudden insight, that this would not be the last time I faced such a dilemma. For a dark moment, I questioned my entire role in the scheme of things.

In the middle of my existential crisis, Eddie brought the car to a gentle halt at the side of the road outside the main boatyard gates. While the big double-gates across the road were padlocked, I could see the small side-gate was unchained as it normally was until midnight and it was at this point that I unwittingly upset my driver. Fortunately, Sherlock was still sound asleep; his rest for the last few days must have been minimal indeed. I decided to leave him exactly where he was and, after closing the door with the softest of _clicks_ , exited the car to stand beside the affronted Eddie.

"I need to see for myself," I said quietly. For all Eddie was large, I was tall and not about to be told what to do by anyone other than Bonneville. "Though I welcome your backup," I raised my eyebrows and gauged his reaction. With a slow blink, he acquiesced, pulling a matt-black pistol from inside his coat. In utter silence and keeping to the unlit shadows, we skirted the edge of the boatyard, alert for the slightest signs of life.

The boatyard itself was, in reality, a minor side stream of the Isis, the name by which all Oxfordians knew the Thames as it flowed through their fair city. At this time of the evening, with the bitter wind picking up and snow still lying in miserable drifts around the sides of a few low buildings, it was highly improbable we'd meet anyone here at all. Any movement whatsoever would either be from a local, checking on a moored boat; the likelihood of that being rather slim, or it would be our man Fisher. Not for the briefest moment did I consider I had reached an incorrect deduction; I simply _knew_ Fisher would be arriving here tonight. Eddie and I took what little shelter we could in the lee of a brick wall, though it afforded us precious little sanctuary from the increasingly gusty arctic air.

The wind held such an icy bite that the temptation to go back and wait in the car was very real. But the Jaguar was too far away from the riverside to see what was happening and I could not risk missing the South African merely because my feet were cold. I reminded myself that Bonneville would have been doing this himself had I not been available and I was certain he would have endured the inclement conditions without comment. I gritted my teeth, tried to stand deeper into the shelter of the wall and assumed a stoicism my mother would have applauded.

I have little recollection of the time Eddie and I spent huddled against the wind in that dreadful spot, it felt like hours but was probably not more than forty-five minutes at most. Thank god I had brought my silk-lined leather gloves with me or my fingers would have made a closer acquaintance with frostbite than was good for them. Eddie seemed impervious to the entire ordeal, his gaze flickering backwards and forwards along the boundary of the boatyard and its environs.

There was the faintest mutter of sound above the wind and I stopped thinking about how many toes I was going to lose and started thinking about how big an engine would make that level of noise. It certainly wasn't excessively loud, but the wind held its own gusty orchestra and it was difficult to hear anything above it.

"There," Eddie nudged me to look at the furthest left-hand entrance of the river into the yard. A vaguely lighter patch of darkness seemed to be edging fractionally forward towards one of the empty berths. It was almost pitch black now and, though my eyes had accustomed themselves to the absence of light, I was still too far away to see the edge of the river as plainly as I would have preferred. Was it a small white cruiser? The silence became louder as the craft's engine was suddenly cut and it pressed gently into the woven rope bollards. The boat was very carefully unlit; clearly a deliberate choice in order to maintain as low a profile as possible.

Edging as close to the end of the wall as I possibly could, I was able to observe two men step cautiously onto the dock, one of them carrying a large briefcase. Both men were tall and rugged up against the chill of the evening, with heavy coats, knitted caps and scarves. Wait ... _scarves_. If there had only been sufficient light on the dock for me to see the scarf of the man with the case. I was confident Judas Fisher would still be wearing his old Merton scarf and the bright cerise would be immediately obvious. There was one feeble street light near the gate but if Eddie and I waited where we were, there was too much of a chance Fisher would see us; we had to withdraw back towards the entrance of the boatyard and find new cover. Hopefully, I'd get to see if it was Fisher once way or the other as soon as the men neared the street light. Just as they were about to reach the halo of dim illumination, the sound of another car engine approached the street side of the boatyard gates. As soon as they came within sight of the Jaguar, the engine dropped in revs, telling me the car was idling and not going anywhere. This immediately argued a number of things, none of them terribly cheering.

It might be a police car, checking for unlawful activates or a local checking on their boat. Not that Eddie and I were doing anything illegal, but I could not afford to be spotted by anyone who might alert Fisher, if he was the man with the case. Alternately, if it wasn't the police or a conscientious boat-owner, then the only reason anyone would idle their car right at that spot was because they'd seen the Jag and were coming to some conclusions of their own. This probably meant whoever was in that car had also been in St Mary's that morning and, if so, then I had no desire to meet them, whoever they might be. Fortunately, our new hiding place was well out of sight of both the road and the boatyard gate. If I could only confirm one of the men from the boat was Fisher ...

" _Quick_ , _this way_." The taller of the two men I'd observed debarking the cruiser had obviously heard the car engine and pulled his associate away from the gate. As they headed into deeper shadow around the corner of one of the few buildings in the immediate vicinity, I remembered there was a smaller, secondary entrance at that end of the yard. I was both relieved and concerned. Relieved, because the voice I'd just heard was unmistakably that of Judas Fisher and at least he had an escape route if whoever it was in the other car had come gunning for him. Concerned, because I didn't want Judas and his colleague making a hasty departure from the boatyard unless I was able to follow and, right now, that was an impossibility if I wanted to remain unseen.

Fisher and the other man were now moving further away on the other side of the yard, directly opposite where Eddie and I were standing. Between us and them was the main boatyard entrance, complete with street lamp and a watcher beyond the gate. If I attempted to cross the space from this side of the yard to the other side, I'd be spotted instantly. I needed to move and yet I dared not do so. There were a series of quiet noises from the far side of the yard as Fisher and his friend made off in the direction of the far gate. _I had to move!_ I had to follow Judas Fisher or lose the entire advantage I'd taken such care to achieve. Just as I was about to risk being seen by whoever it was standing on the outside of the gate, I caught the guttural sounds of a Russian whisper. _Pavel Zima's_ _voice_. How in god's name had Zima been able to work out where to find Fisher? The obvious answer of course, was that he hadn't followed Fisher at all, but had someone put trackers put on every car in the church carpark while we were all inside. Assuming by now that everyone else was tucked away cosily in some warm Oxford hotel, he had followed the Jaguar as we skulked around the city. There was absolutely no way I could afford to have Zima know Fisher was here with the diary; the Russian's style would be to go after the South African with all guns blazing and that spelled disaster. This was an intolerable situation; I daren't move and I couldn't stay. I was well and truly stuck.

Momentarily lost in my own crumbling plan that I barely felt Eddie's fingers nudge the back of my shoulder. The second time he did so, I looked into his face and saw his eyes flick across to the corner of the building across the yard, the same one Fisher had used as cover. Narrowing my eyes to see more clearly in the feeble light, I made out a faint movement. Had Fisher returned? The movement was visible a second time; a hand waving briefly in the night. Wondering why Judas Fisher was waving at me, I reached the awful realisation that it wasn't Fisher at all.

 _Sherlock_. Waving the palm of one hand until he knew he had my attention, his hand-gestures were sufficiently visible to advise me he was going to trail the two men from the boat. There was something small and dark in his palm and I realised he was holding his mobile phone. Sherlock already knew what Fisher looked like from the description I gave him in Henley and he could see I risked discovery if I were to move an inch, thus he had made a unilateral decision to trail Judas Fisher on my behalf and report back to me by phone. It was a capable yet horrifying plan though I suppose from my brother's perspective, it must have seemed perfectly logical and sensible. I had literally one second to decide what I wanted to risk less: my brother or the operation. Lose track of Fisher and the diary or let my brother follow and potentially risk his life?

I let Sherlock go after the briefcase.

###

Eddie and I waited for a further eight agonising minutes before we heard the slam of car doors and the careful reversing of an engine. I had no idea where my brother was by now or even if he had managed to locate and follow Fisher. The instant the car engine faded from hearing, I ran towards the Jaguar, pulling out my phone as I did, though my fingers were numb with cold and I couldn't make them properly press the buttons. One of the other items of new tech installed in all the cars now was an electronic transponder key. No fussing around with cold steel anymore; just a swift press of a little button on a fob and _voila_ , lights flashed and with a soft _beep_ , we had an unlocked car. Both of us threw ourselves into the front seats, slamming the doors hard behind us. Eddie had the engine on and the heater up to full in a second and the pair of us spent several moments groaning and swearing as our fingers and toes fizzed and burned in exquisite agony as bloodflow returned.

The next decision was to call Sherlock or wait until he called me? Assuming he was indeed trailing Fisher, his phone would almost certainly be heard if it were to ring, however, there was a silent vibration option and I would have been surprised if my brother had not adopted it the second he discovered its existence. I decided to leave things for a further seven minutes before I rang, allowing Sherlock ample time to track Fisher, if not to the man's final destination, then at least to his next mode of transport. Fortunately, I wasn't required to wait so long; within a minute, my own phone rang softly in my jacket pocket. Despite my still-clumsy fingers, I had it up to my ear in a heartbeat.

"Sherlock!" I kept my voice calm. "Where are you and is everything alright?"

"Your man's gone to earth at your old stamping grounds, Brother."

I kept my sigh of relief silent. "Tell me," I said, my heart thudding.

"There were two cars waiting; the unknown man got into one of them and Fisher got into the other. Given that it was Fisher you were so interested in earlier, I stole a bicycle and followed the car. Fortunately, he wasn't able to drive terribly quickly in the dark streets, so it wasn't too difficult a job to stay with him. He's just turned into one of the college gates off a place called Rose Lane, if that makes any sense to you, which it should, since you studied here."

 _Rose Lane_. The only places up at that end of the college grounds was the Warden's Lodgings and the music rooms and theatre. I consulted my internal map of my _alma mater_ and remembered that there was one other building at the very top corner, _North Lodge_. Of course ... as an alumni, Fisher would be entitled to board and lodgings as a guest of the college, especially if he was waving a juicy bequest beneath the Warden's nose. Judas Fisher had picked probably the safest place in Oxford to shelter. No outsider would be able to navigate their way through the maze of narrow lanes, quads and walks around the campus. How fortunate then, that I was no outsider. I knew precisely where to find my quarry.

"Excellent, Sherlock," I permitted relief to warm my words. "That's immensely good news. Stay where you are and I'll be there momentarily to pick you up."

"And then what?" my brother was clearly in no mood to call it a night. "You get me a cab back to Cambridge and send me to bed like a good little boy? Nothing doing, Mycroft. I want to be in on the kill. Metaphorically speaking."

"There is not going to be a kill of any description, Sherlock," I felt the relief of my brother's safety fading rapidly in the face of his pugnacity. "Nor was I intending to send you back to your college at this time of night," I paused, realising I had little choice in the matter now. "I'd thought you'd prefer to take advantage of my hotel suite tonight and make your way back to Cambridge in the morning by whatever means suits you best."

Given that it was getting late, that he had eaten nothing since lunchtime, and that he'd spent the last fifteen minutes in a bitter freezing winter's gale, I imagined my brother might consider spending the night in a good-quality hotel a less than intolerable event.

"And are _you_ going to head back to your hotel?"

Damn his eyes. This was not the sort of question I needed at this point in time. Of course I wasn't returning to the hotel, no matter how compelling the siren song of a hot bath and a decent meal. Now that Sherlock was safe, the Judas diary was my first and only concern and I rather wanted to keep it that way. My brother had absolutely no need to be told of my plan to locate Fisher's quarters, break in and steal the item in question.

"As soon as I have verified Fisher's location, yes, of course I'll be coming to the hotel," I lied, just as the Jaguar pulled into the top end of Rose Lane and I saw Sherlock bent almost double to keep out of the cutting wind. Springing out of the front seat, I had the back door opened and bundled him inside, following close behind.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I turned both heater vents in his direction. "You have made my life immeasurably simpler by tracking Fisher. I'm not sure what I would have done had we lost him completely."

"Then let me to come with you," a pair of bright blue eyes turned my way, advising me my dissembling had been of no value. "I know when you're lying, Mycroft. You have no intention of returning to the hotel. What _is_ your plan? You must have one." I had always known I was smarter than my brother, but not by much and it was at moments like this that the negligibility of that different became clear.

"Sherlock ..." I hesitated, seeking the best words. "You can't come with me. This is a dangerous situation; there may be violence or gunfire and you are trained for neither."

"And you are?" his dark eyebrows lowered in an irritated scowl.

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You cannot possibly expect me to just leave all the good bits for you now," Sherlock glared. "We've come this far. I feel it only fair that you allow me to see the end of the adventure."

"It's _not_ an adventure," I could hear the growing exasperation in my voice. I had little time to argue the toss with him. "This is serious, Sherlock. I cannot permit a civilian into an operation such as this."

"Even though you already have?" he argued with impeccable logic.

"Mummy would never forgive either of us if you were hurt," though fatuous, I felt the statement worth a try.

Sherlock had the door open and was outside before I could raise a hand. I had little choice but to go after him.

" _With me_ ," I ordered, leaping through the still open-door, knowing Eddie needed no other invitation. Though it was the true dark of night, I saw Sherlock's darker figure pull himself over the closed white-painted gates of the lodge. In less than two seconds, I had followed. The slamming of my driver's door told me I was not alone.

Even though Sherlock had no idea of Merton's geography or layout, it was clear he knew precisely where to go as he ran at full tilt around the corner of the building, heading towards the dimly-lit front porch in the blocky, two-story building. Even as I watched, he had the door open and was already inside the deeply recessed doorway. There was little I could do but follow, damn him. There was no time to see if Eddie was behind me; I just had to hope.

The sound of running footsteps ceased suddenly, not far from where I stood. The inside of the building was dark, save for a few low-wattage lightbulbs hanging in the corridors off the entrance hall.

"This way," Sherlock pointed to a series of semi-damp footprints on the stone flags of the old building. He was about to head off up the stairs when I grabbed his arm and wrenched him back against the wall.

" _No_ ," I hissed. "You will _stay_ here."

My brother is tall, but I was taller. Not only that, I was already developing a man's weight, whereas Sherlock still had the lithe and lightweight mass of a teenager. If things came to a physical tussle, there would be no contest. Realising this as quickly as I did, he slumped back against the wall and offered no further resistance.

"I need to get the briefcase he was carrying," I whispered. "If you want to help me, you can, but we will do this _my_ way or I'll have my driver knock you out and lock you in the boot for the rest of the night," I paused, unable to see the expression on his face but knowing by Sherlock's slowed breathing that he was thinking.

A draft of freezing air told me Eddie had arrived.

"There may be others in the room beside Fisher," there was no need to offer further explanation. "I want the book in the briefcase. If we cannot take it with us tonight, I want it completely destroyed. If I cannot have it, then nobody else can have it either, is that understood?" I felt Sherlock nod and I heard the softest of clicks as Eddie eased the safety catch off his pistol.

"We go upstairs together," I added. "Sherlock, you are the drunken student, looking for his friend. Eddie and I will gain entrance to the room as soon as Fisher opens the door. Once we are inside, there will be no noise and as little violence as possible. Is that understood?" Sherlock nodded again and I had no need to worry about my driver. This was his area of expertise.

Relaxing my hold, I took a deep breath. Whatever happened now would have an enormous effect on my future career. If I was able to obtain the diary, all well and good. If I had to see it destroyed, that was also acceptable. The one thing I could not do was fail.

The staircase was carpeted and thus noiseless as we ascended. It was still possible to track faint signs of unabsorbed water on the surface of the wool leading us to a doorway close to the head of the stairs. Judas Fisher's room. The light up here was still dim, though better than downstairs. I gripped Sherlock's arm and he brushed my fingers with his own in reassurance as he walked back down to the bottom of the stairs.

"Trevor?" the loudness of my brother's voice shattered the silence of the old building. " _Treeevooor_ ," he sang, mounting the stairs. " _I know you're in here mate, you owe me a pint, you bastard,_ " Sherlock's impression of drunkenness was so good, I wondered if he had considered a career on the stage. Stumbling up the stairs, he staggered beyond Eddie and I until he leaned bodily against Fisher's door. "Trevor, you sod. _Come down to the Union!_ " He rested the side of his face against the door, right beside the small security peephole.

"There's no Trevor here. _Go away_." There was still the faintest South African drawl in Fisher's voice.

"Awww, Trevor, don' be like that," Sherlock turned a inane grin against the peephole.

The door was wrenched open and an arm thrust out, ready to dislodge the intruder and things happened quickly.

Sherlock stood, suddenly sober, grabbing the arm intending to shove him away. I reached for Fisher's other arm and between us, we walked the man back into his room. So startled was he that Judas Fisher had no time to protest. Eddie was in behind us, door closed and drawn pistol pointed directly at the South African's forehead. The whole operation had taken less than three seconds.

"Good evening, Mr Fisher," I smiled briefly. Despite the situation, there was no need to be uncivilised. "Sir David Bonneville sends his regards." As soon as he heard Bonneville's name, Fisher relaxed, permitting Sherlock and I to release his arms.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping back in order to stare warily at the three of us. "I'm unarmed," he said, nodding at Eddie's gun. "You don't need that." Eddie didn't move.

"You know why I'm here of course," I said, peeling off my gloves, looking around the small room. The briefcase was not visible, but there were only a few places it could be hidden. The wardrobe was an obvious choice, but if Fisher wanted to get at it quickly, he'd put it somewhere ... of course. I lifted the edge of the bed's heavy coverlet with the toe of my shoe. The case lay on the floor beneath the bed.

"You've come for the diary?" Fisher's tone was part curious, part disgust. "I never thought David would steal from an old friend."

"I'm not here to steal anything," I turned and faced the man. "I simply do not have time to go through a farce of an auction for your amusement," I inhaled slowly. "Name your price."

"And you'll pay whatever I ask?" Judas raised both eyebrows and grinned the same grin I had seen in the faded old photograph. I said nothing, waiting.

"I'd get at least five million from the Eurocrats," he mused. "And the Russians would outbid the Yankees at the drop of a hat ..."

"Your price?" I repeated.

"Ten million dollars US," Fisher lifted his chin and folded his arms.

"Done," I offered him my hand to close the deal.

" _Damn_ ," Fisher's eyes met mine directly. "I should have asked for fifteen."

I smiled politely. Given the current exchange rate, I would have paid twenty. "The diary?"

"Here," Fisher bent and pulled the case out from under the bed. Laying it on top of the covers, he dialled in a triple set of combinations before opening the case and withdrawing a large Perspex box. The diary lay in the centre.

"It's Argon-filled," Sherlock stepped forward, unable to remain silent. "Not a good sign for the longevity of the contents."

"We have methods of reading even the most faded of inks," I faced Fisher. "I take it a wired transfer of cash to the same Swiss account will suffice?" I asked, already on the phone to Bonneville. It was answered almost immediately. "We have the diary," I said. "Mr Fisher has agreed to sell for ten million US dollars." Bonneville was pleased. He didn't say much but the tone of his voice told me everything. "The payment should be wired through to the same account as the deposit."

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, examining the Perspex case. "I don't suppose I can open this?" he looked hopeful. I nodded at Eddie who relieved my brother of the precious box.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I began putting my gloves back on. "We should go now," I turned to Fisher. "I imagine you'd like to be far away from here before the morning?" I asked. "What of your family?" Fisher was already shrugging into a heavy winter coat.

"My son and his mother are already enroute to a safe place a very long way from Oxford," he grinned his irrepressible grin. "And besides, I have some excellent insurance."

The small mobile phone on the bedside table rang. Fisher picked it up, listened, nodded and smiled. "Bring the car," he said. "I'm, leaving tonight."

It sounded very much as though the money had already been transferred. I wondered what he had meant about the insurance.

###

"Well done, my boy," Sir David smiled as he poured me a snifter of cognac. "According to our analysts, so far the contents of the diary are everything we'd hoped to have and more," he nodded thoughtfully. "You handled the situation well."

I accepted the drink and sipped the smooth spirit, enjoying the warm burn over my palate. It was the 1961 Hennessey XO which suggested Sir David was very pleased indeed. And really, despite my little brother's interference, things had gone remarkable well. Eddie and I had made an appearance at the designated location for the auction the following morning after seeing Sherlock off in a cab back to Cambridge. Zima and Ramanchuk were both predictably livid, storming off in a massive eastern European strop, though the rest of the would-be bidders seemed philosophical. Apparently everyone's deposits had been returned overnight. I managed to appear suitably disappointed yet stoically British.

I sat in Bonneville's stately office, sipping excellent brandy and patting myself on the back for a job well done when the internal desk-phone rang.

"Yes?" Sir David's smile faded fractionally as he replaced the phone in its receiver. He took another sip from his glass before sitting back in his ample chair.

"Something the matter?" I knew how to read my mentor now. Something was up.

"You said Judas Fisher mentioned insurance?" he lifted his glass again and sipped meditatively.

"He did, though he gave no specifics."

"That was the lab; they've completed scanning and reading the contents of the diary and there's a bit of a problem."

I lifted my eyebrows. Had the entire thing been a contrivance? _A fake?_

"The document is everything it purports to be," Bonneville said, seeing my reaction. "But the last entry was written in the December of 1975. We're fifteen years short." Fisher's insurance policy was immediately clear.

 _There was a second volume._

No wonder the man had felt sufficiently safe to play such a game with us all. He knew the eventual purchasers of the diary would never reveal their ownership to the world, while everyone else would be constantly wondering if Fisher had even sold the thing or had changed his mind and kept it for himself. Either way, nobody would touch him.

Sir David started laughing, sitting forward and raising his glass. "To Judas Fisher, consummate conman."

I drank the toast with reservations, knowing things would not be so easy at the next appearance of the Judas diary.


End file.
